Hypothetical Daughters

I only got out of the house twice today. My first surfacing was the usual morning stroll to buy the papers. This meant walking passed the foul Mitchell sculpture and strawberry beer pub, through the Sunday silence of millionaire villas to fractured bursts of haqibah and the smell of boiling meat from the Sudanese occupied council flats.

Between the two hemispheres of propertied gentility and cacophonic cultural diversity there is a strange hinterland. A row of garages links the two territories. At one end Mercedes, the other battered white vans; a carpet of leafs in contrast to a covering of broken glass and the assorted debris. As you walk along this patch, you feel as if you are walking between worlds.

Today’s planned visit to the Museum of London was abandoned fairly early on. Reasons included harsh rain, feeling queasy post the S&M meal in Portobello yesterday and the seductive joy of returning to bed when the rhythmic dull thud of weather on the windows is providing a perfect soundtrack to snuggling under the duvet and reading.

Come twilight, the rain had eased to a limp patter, so a walk via mews and waterways in search of milk beckoned. Seeing eight swans gliding in silent formation transformed any grumbles about the damp and cold into just other reasons to smile and enjoy my surroundings. Not even the scrum of rudeness to be found at a Tesco Local was enough to make the trip out seem anything less than wonderful.

As the night closed in and I began to feel rough again, talk turned blackberry picking with my hypothetical daughters and the possibility of putting a post box in a hypothetical garden. It might be due to such discussions I am going to bed not only with a warm glow but also without a fear of nightmares for once.